


Outlaws

by Muspell



Series: Hardbacked and Leatherbound [6]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: AND THAT KISS, Bromance, M/M, and drinking your common sense off, just their story together, sneaking into places
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-22 20:16:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10704318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muspell/pseuds/Muspell
Summary: “Bad day, huh?” Otabek doesn’t even reply. He doesn’t need to; Leo gets the point in an instant. They’ve been together for too long already. There’s even rumours on the rink and at the schools that they’re boyfriends; he never proves them wrong. No one ever messes with him: it’s the easiest way to keep bastards away from Leo. No one will touch him if he’s defended. “It happens. Shit happens. It’ll pass.” He barely lifts his gaze when Leo comes closer, sitting right in front of him on the bar. “Tough days are only days. They end, too.” Leo had the cheesiest way to cheer him up, the most awful wordplays in existence. Yet for some reason they work; there’s something real, something so utterly unpretentious about it. He’s not even trying to sound poetic, enlightened. He just is. His words always bring a little smile to Otabek’s face, and today’s not any different, as much as he’d like to deny it.





	Outlaws

It’s all going to shit.

That’s about it. He’s had enough of it. This is the third country he’s tried to excel in and he’s still anything but distinguished. Fuck, he’s gone all the way to the other side of the world for this and he’s still a forgotten name on the list. Not forgotten on the coach’s lips, though, as he seems to fail at about everything he tries today. Every jump over rotated or way too small, every step sequence too stiff. _You need to loosen up_ , she says, and Otabek flinches at the idea. ‘Loosen up’ sounds like letting his walls crumble down in his ears: he cannot do that. He’s gone to the city with the “land of opportunities” bullshit engraved in his head, only to receive a slap on the face. Well, several, more like.

And a whole other number of things he doesn’t want to think of right now; the bruises of the ice hitting his skin is not enough to numb the memories of their touch, scorching his flesh, leaving behind scars that won’t ever fade, no matter the ice, no matter the training, the fights, the collection of different droplets of pain trying to engulf them. The brand still burns under the bright blue spot covering the whole curve of his hipbone, staring right back at him on the full body mirror in the changing rooms, peeking up from his waistband. He winces at the brush of his own fingers against it, one hand holding his shirt up just enough, but presses down again. The rink can be milder with him than the real world is, yet this time he can only feel them whispering the exact same things at unison on his mind.

_You’re a failure. You’re weak. You deserve this._

_He’ll never see you._

_You’re no one. You’ll always be no one. There’s no point._

He hits the showers and get ready to go back home, setting the water as hot as it gets just to feel the burning ache on his body. It calms him down, somehow. It makes his head focus on the scolding touch on his skin; it makes his mind shut up for once. He needs the silence.

Leo notices, at least. He always does. It’s funny: they’re nothing alike, Leo being always so giddy and open and touchy, so nothing like him, yet he draws Otabek in like a magnet. As if the warmth he tries to bring in is the only thing saving Otabek from drowning in his own shit. They’ve been living together for a year now: a year of furtive escapes in the night when things got too rough, a year of drunken heartfelt talks when Otabek could barely get away without Leo waking up. A year of them suffering for people who didn’t even glance at them, not like they wanted to. Leo can at least text the boy, whatever his name is, play pretend friends with him, no matter how much it hurts. He says it’s better than nothing, to at least keep him close. Happy around him, even this way. Otabek doesn’t really get it. He doesn’t need to: he’s no one, after all. A shadow under a prodigy’s life. Maybe not even that- Otabek could never forget those deep green eyes, shining with the force of a raging fire, barely glancing at him for a second. At his not good enough self. Yuri Plisetsky must have forgotten him by now.

He refuses to tell his friend how jealous he is of it all, of Leo having the chance he doesn’t. He refuses to feel bitter about it. Not with the one person that has been trying so hard to reach him, that has shown patience and kindness and compassion as anyone has. Not in a long time.

Not when Leo sees him on the bike, ignoring his silly comment about practice, and shrugs to reach for his helmet without saying a word. They’ve built a balance, a sort of synchronicity between them in the past year. Leo never asks what Otabek’s not willing to talk about; never pushes the line forward. Not too far, at least.

The trip back home is quiet. Leo jumps onto the bed the second they get into their apartment: a paltry excuse of an studio flat too small for the both of them, cramped with Leo’s memories and school books on the built in bookshelf on one of the walls and a breakfast bar working as a divider for the bedroom to the kitchen area. He’s gotten used to the claustrophobic feeling of it, just as he did with the cold of the streets when he was a kid. He calls it ‘cozyness’ now; it still sounds like a lie. But it is warm. There’s that.

He gets up on his toes to open the cabinet over the fridge; neither of them are particularly tall, so it seemed like a good idea at the time to hide their ‘vices’ on the highest furniture in the house. The hardest to reach. He hears Leo humming a sweet soft tune while tapping on his phone, an image he’s seen often enough, as he pulls out a glass, some ice, the vodka bottle he just took down. He pours a double; he needs it.

“Bad day, huh?” Otabek doesn’t even reply. He doesn’t need to; Leo gets the point in an instant. They’ve been together for too long already. There’s even rumours on the rink and at the schools that they’re boyfriends; he never proves them wrong. No one ever messes with him: it’s the easiest way to keep bastards away from Leo. No one will touch him if he’s defended. “It happens. Shit happens. It’ll pass.” He barely lifts his gaze when Leo comes closer, sitting right in front of him on the bar. “Tough days are only days. They end, too.” Leo had the cheesiest way to cheer him up, the most awful wordplays in existence. Yet for some reason they work; there’s something real, something so utterly unpretentious about it. He’s not even trying to sound poetic, enlightened. He just is. His words always bring a little smile to Otabek’s face, and today’s not any different, as much as he’d like to deny it.

Otabek still quirks a brow at Leo when he sees the boy reaching for the glass, taking a sip and wincing at it. “So, what’s your story?” He knows Leo should be bitching him about drinking at five in the afternoon. Barely after training, without even having dinner yet. But he’s joining in. Weirdly enough, yet Otabek can see through him. Although Leo likes to talk: the least Otabek can do is ask.

“It’s silly.” Leo waves a hand at him, smiling a pitiful smile, like a forced twitch on his lips. Otabek fills the glass all the way up again and gulps half of it in one go.

“Of course it is.” The smile falters, leaving room for an exaggerated pout. Leo knows about his little sister, how he calls her every time he can. He also knows the puppy eyes trick doesn’t work when it comes from him. “You are. Therefore your story is. Still,” He waits for the expected giggle. He’s been told more than once that his formal speech is what makes people believe he’s older than he really is. That he’s too clinical about life. He fails to answer that he needs to in order to give rationality a place to put his wrath, his hatred into boxes, stashed away from view. They were bad days. And a day is just that: it ends, doesn’t it? Logically their stench should leave with the hours passed. He needs to cling into that logic. He still feels it untrue. “I’m asking.”

Leo tries to imitate him, leaning on the back of his bar stool and downing the drink. He hardly does, crunching up his nose and brushing a droplet of vodka off the corner of his mouth, slamming the glass against the counter. He’s not much of a drinker, not like Otabek is. That’s a good thing. “You’ll always be my best friend. Heart heart heart.” He chuckles. “It’s cute, isn’t it?” Shakes his head, staring at the glass as if it were judging him somehow. “It shouldn’t hurt this much.” Lifts up his gaze to meet Otabek’s who just patiently listens. “Should it?”

Otabek wants to add a remark he knows shouldn’t escape his lips. _He’s your friend, your best friend, you have it easy._ He won’t. Leo deserves the the compassion, after all. He settles for finishing the glass. “That’s not really a full stop, is it?”

“It feels like it. Like a dead end.” Leo giggles and covers his face with his hands, groaning. “I told you it was stupid. I knew it!”

Otabek stares, studying him. He always gets out when he’s overwhelmed, tired of the world, and both Leo and him are now. At least he most definitely is. Yet he knows through a few failed escapades and a couple of runs from the cops after a night became a bit too dirty even for his taste, it’s not Leo’s way to deal with the weight on his shoulders. There’s one thing Leo is most definitely into, though; the one thing they both share besides the ice. “Let’s do something.” Leo tilts his head at him, his hands resting on the collar of his shirt, confused. “We need to get out, you and me. Let’s.”

Otabek knows he’s blunt with words. Tough, even. But Leo’s used to it by now; he understands the questions Otabek never really asks. “Are you taking me clubbing again? I don’t think I-”

“No.” Otabek stands up to change from his workout clothes into something more appropriate; Leo follows his moves as he takes the combat boots out of the closet.The well worn ones, all scratched and stepped on and fixed too many times. “There’s something on you’ll like.” He jumps off the stool when Otabek turns to him. “Wear something comfortable on your feet.”

Leo doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to. Otabek owns very little: he’s got literally only four pairs of shoes. Running shoes, flip flops, good boots and his battlefield boots, all with steel toes. The name, of course, was Leo’s idea, but it still fits: Otabek wear those for specific reasons. Nights out drinking on the streets, where they might need to get up and run away at the first police siren in the air; or concerts.

They’re most certainly not clubbing tonight.

 

* * *

  


It takes them a good hour to get to the place on the bike, and then a few blocks walking: Otabek never parks the thing close to the places he goes to; he doesn’t like to be recognized. The motorcycle is way too obvious in the night, growling over the noise of drunkards and hookers and lowlives testing their luck on the streets. They’ve almost been followed once; he takes his precautions now.

Leo’s dressed in black, a too big shirt Otabek had to lend him in order to blend into the night as they stroll down through the streets of New Jersey. Otabek takes his wrist to push him forward down the steps to a door almost hidden on the brick wall building front, an echo of loud music and red lights sneaking through it. He feels a yank on his hand, from Leo trying to pull away when he notices, yet he keeps his grip firm, dragging his friend behind him. It’s  too expensive a concert for them to pay the ticket, after all, but Otabek knows how to pretend he knows the place, to be just one more roadie on the list. It’s not like they actually have a list, so getting in is fairly easy.

He lets Leo go to the bar, nervous and fidgeting, his eyes all over the place, as if there was someone, somewhere, following his every move to kick him out at the first misstep. Otabek understands, really: he felt the same way the first time Nuro snuck him into his bar, telling him to stay back and not talk with the customers. Sure, he was eleven, but still.

He peeks into the backstage door, the band already up and readying the instruments. Someone asks something, he replies; all a series of ‘mh’ and ‘okay’ as he follows the game. They think he works for the place; they don’t even blink as he takes out a handful of empty bottles of liquor, an almost full vodka amongst them. Good thing both Leo and him like transparent spirits. And JaegerMeister, after their first drinking night together, but that was a complicated one for tonight. Vodka will have to do.

He walks out of the roadies’ perspective to dump the empty bottles against a wall and pulls out his cellphone, texting Leo a picture of him standing awkwardly against the bar. Watches the boy turning one way and another, trying to find out where the pictured was captured from. They lock eyes. Leo walks to him as carefully as a deer trying to cross a highway, as if someone was there to catch him.

There is: Otabek reaches out when he’s close enough, pulling him into the shadows by the collar of his shirt. “Stop looking like that. It’s weird.”

“Like _what?”_ Leo sounds pissed; Otabek knows he’s just scared. He’s never done something like this.

“Like you’re not supposed to be here. We’re gonna get caught.” Leo’s about to protest when Otabek pulls him closer, sneaking an arm around his waist while hiding the bottle in between their bodies, to whisper in his ear. “Help me with this.” There’s a nudge against Leo’s chest. “It’ll be fine.” He pulls apart, still holding Leo at arm’s length, to take a long sip of vodka. Not even chilled. It’s not his first, yet it still burns all the way down; he doesn’t let his face show it. “I promise.”

Leo slumps his shoulders, sighing loudly. He rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck, trying to relax. He pulls his phone out, looking for a text message that’s not there. Otabek knows what he wants to read; he knows it’s not gonna happen just now, no matter how much Leo needs to. The phone is back in Leo’s pocket and the bottle in his hand; there’s always plan B, after all. He takes a gulp longer than Otabek thought he could manage, and grimaces at the taste. Otabek sees what’s coming next: he grabs onto the bottle with one hand while pushing Leo with the other, holding him from the middle of his back, as the boy starts sputtering. He’s not that much of a drinker, no matter how tough he wants to play.

There’s a muffled mumble on his shoulder, something about rejection. Otabek doesn’t want to hear it right now, not tonight. He’ll want to scream at him, to whine and complain of things Leo cannot change. He’ll make them both miserable; at least Leo doesn’t deserve the treatment. He downs a good part of the vodka; there’s less than half of it by the time he speaks again, and the music’s already started. “Have you ever been in a moshpit?”

“Wha- you’re not throwing me out there, are you?” Leo lifts up from his shoulder a bit too fast, judging by the way he blinks repeatedly afterwards. He tries the pouty look again. Again, it’s not working.

“No. I’m going with you.” Otabek pulls his hand away from his friend’s back to grab him by his shoulder, staring right into his eyes. Leo seems a little lost already, his eyes glassy and trying hard to focus; yet again, he’s not exactly sober either, his fingertips already feeling numb. He knows he’s slurring despite his efforts to speak clear. It’s not like Leo can notice, anyways. “If you finish this for me.”

“That’s like,” Leo shouts at him, either stunned or half deaf by the sound of speakers right next to them, or a bit of both, “like a lot! A lot a lot!”

“It’s about ten ounces, you won’t die.” Otabek wants to roll his eyes at his friend: he knows the world would start spinning if he even dares. Leo takes the bottle anyways, barely sipping on it yet giving it back with a grimace. He can’t take no more; it’s probably better that way. Otabek clicks his tongue. “Fair enough.” He finishes the drink and puts the bottle against the others, stumbling slightly when he pushes himself off the wall. “Ready?”

Leo nods what feels like a thousand times in a second and takes his hand, dragging him into the crowd. He’s heard this song before, he knows what it does to people. The first chords are enough for him to stiffen suddenly pulling Leo closer to him.

[ _Light of a silhouette_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jRu0O1J3Y4s)

[ _He's insubordinate_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jRu0O1J3Y4s)

[ _Coming at you on the count of one, two.._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jRu0O1J3Y4s)

Shit.

The crowd closes against them and he loses sight of Leo almost immediately. The music engulfs him whole. He’s chosen Green Day in particular for having an audience much milder than other rawer bands around. More suitable to Leo’s style. He doesn’t really care about the people clashing against him, dancing around him, yelling out the words with him. He just needs to shout out, needs to feel the fists and shoulders and sweat of complete strangers colliding with him, pushing him away from the sickness of the outside. The moshpit is one big family, and all he needs is this, the embrace. To be told without words that everything’s going to be just fine in between misheard lyrics and amps saturating the sound and cheap booze stolen from a backstage table. And just, this. Bar rats, lowlifes, runaways, criminals. It doesn’t matter, none of it does, when you’re one with the crowd. The only crowd he feels truly comfortable in, anonymous yet familiar to all. He doesn’t even linger on the ridiculousness of that phrase, letting the next lyrics wash him over. It’s almost as if the band could see through him, damn them. He lets an arm wrap around his shoulder, bringing him closer to some random guy, too gone to stand on his own and smelling of pot and women’s cheap perfume and stale beer. He brushes the awkwardness off: they sing along.

[ _The first time I caught a glimpse of you, then all of my thoughts were only of you…_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=li4L1Iyasok)

Let them know, who cares. It’s an unknown crowd merging into one voice after all. A family of rejects. He finally feels at home.

 

He pushes out after the curtains close for the first time: he knows there’s an encore coming but he needs the air right now. He sees Leo resting his forehead on the bar, exhausted. He takes a beer cup from someone, too out of himself to hold it properly and walks to his friend, leaning his elbow on the bar casually. “You okay?” He only gets a groan for a response. It’s clear enough. He nudges Leo’s shoulder to make him look up, offering the beer to him. Leo cracks his neck again and leans right next to Otabek, awkwardly copying his posture. He looks like a little child in his parent’s clothes, playing at being a grown up, puffing up and scowling at the air. It’s adorable. Otabek can’t suppress the laughter; Leo giggles beside him.

“I didn’t take you for a punk.” He starts. Otabek snorts, shaking his head. What did he see him like then? He’s afraid to ask and the words betray him, sliding all crunched together off his tongue. Trying to constantly hide his accent, pitifully if he might add, is troublesome enough without adding half a bottle of vodka and a bit of beer to it. Leo chuckles and relaxes his stance, somehow glowing as he hasn’t in a while. He’s already forgotten all the petty thoughts that brought them both here. Otabek can see right through him and what he can see is a blinding light. He hums the song playing, [_We were delinquents, Freaks of a fading memory._](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iyy-xff1Ii4) Otabek can do nothing but laugh at the timing. “That one, though. That you are.” Leo turns to him, one hand at each side of him on the bar. “Outlaws. And proud, if I may add.”

“You may.” Otabek knows he’s grinning like an idiot, but the light is contagious. As if Leo’s trying to push out all the dirt in him. He knows nothing of it, of course he’s trying to. He doesn’t know how deeply rooted it is.

“You’re smiling!” Leo practically shout out of joy. It’s funny how he moves like a kid when he’s happy. It’s funny how happy he is after everything. It’s funny how the world melted for them just now, only a fuzzy memory of people shuffling by and smoking around them, a muffled song in their ears. “You’re so cute when you smile.” He feels himself being pulled off the bar by two strongholds on his wrists, clashing onto Leo’s chest before he can stand on his own feet. He still runs a hand across Leo’s waist, letting his head fall on the crook of his shoulder. There’s something about the voices, the slow tone of the song that’s lulling him. “Dance with me, Otabek.” Leo whines.

He winces at the name. It feels weird, huh? to be called by your full name by… by him? By his friend, he guesses: they’ve been living together for a year now, they _are_ friends, aren’t they? “Don’t call me that.” He lets Leo mark his moves, following the soft beat with his hips. He barely feels the motion. “No one does. Not- not my full name.”

Leo hums the tune in his ear before speaking up again. “How about Beks?” Otabek lifts his head up, looking at him through blurry eyes. “Is it better?”

Leo smiles so bright it’s blinding, contagious. “Yeah, I like that.” He whispers almost in a trance, feeling his legs too light to hold him up, stumbling just barely. He’s too focused on keeping his own body from betraying him, licking numb lips just to savour the sensation, too drawn into himself to notice the exact time his friend’s lips fall on his.

It’s just a second, a fraction of it; a delicate touch flooded with vodka and beer and yes, some adrenaline for the forbidden, too. They were breaking many rules tonight, why not one more? Leo pulls out just enough and Otabek lets the beer in his hand drop next to his leg, splashing against the sticky floor. He cups Leo’s jaw with his fingers  to bring him back into a kiss so soft Otabek feels like he’s melting into it. He knows Leo is when he feels the boy tug slightly at the rings in his lips, twirling his tongue against Otabek, moaning into his mouth.

Leo pushes him back against the bar, almost tripping on his own feet; he giggles when he feels them falling against the wooden surface and kisses him deeper, hands running underneath his shirt, up and down and everywhere they can get a reaction from. Otabek has been on this game for far too long, he moves on a reflex more than consciously: he grinds against his friend’s crotch, a hand on the back of Leo’s neck and another one scratching the curve of his spine, down to cup his ass. He feels his mind doing somersaults, from the thrill on his skin to the lead on his chest. It’s not so bad, isn’t it? Just one more night filling the bullet holes in him with booze, quenching his thirst with someone else’s. Just one more Saturday night for him.

But it’s not, it’s really not. He doesn’t do this. Not known people: that’s a rule. Not anyone who knows his name. Not anyone who’s given him another. Not friends. He doesn’t screw and ditch friends. He feels it escape in between Leo’s panting, the needle carefully hidden in between his ribs, twitching at the sound, opening a wound he didn’t know he had until now. Beks. He cannot do this, he just can’t.

Otabek pushes him away a bit too harshly; Leo trips and staggers back. He covers his mouth the second he realizes, eyes wide. He wants to say something, Otabek can see it in his eyes yet no one dares say a word. He runs to the exit. Fuck. Otabek’s not going to stop him, it would only make things worse, but he needs to explain himself, he needs to say… to say anything. His head is on short circuit, he can’t even think clearly right now. What could he even say? All he knows is that he tried to cheer his friend up, and failed, and made it all so much worse. Good move. He needs to stop thinking. He needs to drown and stop thinking.

He stands up to leave, putting all his will into making his legs feels less like they’re made of jelly, when a guy approaches him. Taller than him, saying something about being ditched. A smoke in between his fingers. Ditched. Ah, must be about Leo. He says nothing as the guy leans in to kiss him; he bites on his lower lip, hard enough for the guy to wince and yell at him when he pulls back, and takes the cigarette from the bastard’s hand. He needs to drown. Somewhere where no one talks to him about Leo. He takes a long puff of the smoke as he walks out, the suddenly cold wind feeling like a slap on his face. He walks down the road: there’s a club a couple of blocks away, he  saw it on their way to the venue. He can make someone pay for his ticket, he knows people do that if you let them fondle you enough. The smoke forms a floriture around him, like a hand extended after a vow, gesturing towards him. He knows he shouldn’t. He knows he should go back.

He can’t go back home. Not like this, not right now. He can’t face Leo right now. He can’t feel the dirt he let himself put onto him.

He needs to drown. And other people’s bodies are as good as any open sea.

 

* * *

 

 

Otabek hears a rumble from the bed and tries to lift his head from his arm, numb and drooled on. Disgusting. He rolls his shoulders and feel himself stiff, cracking at every joint, his back a mess of knots and ungreased hinges. If someone were to come up right now and tell him he just aged fifty years he’d believe them. There’s a jackhammer inside his skull, drilling deeper every time the curtains moves slightly with the wind, letting the morning sun shine in. Vodka works the day he has it, it always does, but the mornings after are hellsent. More a morning like this: waking up all draped over the breakfast bar, having fallen asleep on one of the stools, a cigarette put down on a half drunk glass of water by his side.

He doesn’t have the heart to push Leo to the side of the bed last night; not when the boy had fallen asleep curled up on himself clutching his phone for dear life. Probably telling someone he did a bad thing. Most certainly talking to his best friend how happy he is to have him around. And nothing else; Leo doesn’t dare say anything else. Otabek tried not to think he wouldn’t either.

“Did you sleep like _that?_ I knew you were crazy but dude…” Leo walks past him to take the glass off the counter and wash it. Otabek doesn’t lift his gaze; he just lets the sound of the water lulls him again. Waking up seems too much of an effort right now. He listen the coffee maker working a moment later and his body stirrs on his own, bringing every sting in his spine back to life. He groans as if he was being stabbed with a thousand needles because that’s exactly how he feels. That and that he’s made out of lead. Downed on concrete. He could use that fucking coffee. Instead, he gets too harsh hands on his shoulders, pressing on the knots of his back. “Since when do you even smoke, Beks?” He lets out only a series of grunts and hisses and what he tries not to let them sound as screams of pain. Leo might be good for him on his good days, but hangovers must hit him hard; he’s a demon, kneading and prodding against Otabek’s back, into every crease of his muscles, around every aching spot. “What was that?”

“I hate you so much right now.” He manages to murmurs before a sharp prod on his lower back makes him almost jump off the stool, gasping. Leo must hate him too. That is not what friends do. The light crawling in burns into him, making him blink fast until his eyes get used to the, what is it? Midday sun? Already? It was already dawn when he came home, after all.

He hears him giggle as he goes back to the kitchen to fix both of them a cup of coffee. Otabek hates the taste of it really, but he’s developed a physical need for it after his nights out and day long training, trying to keep up with barely a few hours of sleep. Leo knows, of course he does; he brings a platter with every silly flavoured creamer and syrup they ended up collecting, plus sugar and some oatmeal cookies that might have not been too long on the cabinet.

“You don’t really have to answer that. I get it.” Leo says over the rim of his cup. Otabek glances at him, one brow quirked up, but doesn’t answer, pouring a good amount of vanilla syrup onto his own mug before sipping it. The bitter aftertaste of coffee is still there, but it’s the best he can do without risking his teeth suddenly falling off for all the sugar in his drink. “The marks on your hips. Most of then weren’t there yesterday, were they?” He feels the color run from his cheeks, a hand sneaking to his back to pull him shirt further down. He knows exactly what Leo means; he remembers barely any details from the night before, there were no faces but strong hands, dainty and slim, like a pianist, playing a tune over his hipbones before gripping hard enough to leave blue fingerprints onto his skin. He remembers his own voice, too loud for himself to stand, encouraging the stranger further. The ecstasy from last night now washes over him as bile, as shame. “It’s okay, I don’t mind, you don’t have to talk.” He sighs into his coffee before sipping it. “It’s a bit cliched, isn’t it?” Leo chuckles. “The smoke after a fuck thing?”

Otabek lets his head fall back onto the counter, groaning loudly. “What kind of an idiot are you, Leo?”

He hears laughter, muffled by the throbbing of his head against the cold of the bar. “I’m an outlaw, I guess? So that kind of idiot?” He props his chin on the bar, just to look at him, confused. Leo smirks, his head resting on his hand, his other elbow propped up on the counter as well, palm looking down. “We have a song now, don’t we?”

Oh. He forgot about that. He bites down on his lip, trying somehow to erase the touch of Leo’s, just awoken by the memory. “About that, I-”

“I freaked out.” Leo looks away, smiling. Embarrassed. Why would he? Otabek pushed him off as if he was poisonous. And the toxic one was surely not Leo. “I should have just talked to you, I…” He giggles again. Otabek’s completely lost every time he tries to understand Leo; everything seems so trivial around him, so ephemeral. The sun always shines back again for him, the cuts always heal. The bad day is just a day, it can’t last for long. He makes it sound all too easy. Even this; it sound all too simple, so much lighter than he felt it. “The song is nice and you’re pretty. I fucked up.” Leo shrugs and Otabek chuckles without even noticing. Life’s so much lighter with him around. “But you did bad things, Altin. You sneaked in and stole booze, you _are_ an outlaw.”

Otabek sits up to lean of the back of the stool, smirking at his friend. “You followed. And drank stolen booze. You’re not much better.”

“Yeah, I know.” He grins and Otabek knows he’s lost. He just proved him right, didn’t he? And Leo takes advantage of it, singing in his own, soft style; words sliding sweetly off his mouth. _“Outlaws, when we were forever young…”_

“Don’t.” Otabek covers his face with his hands in mock embarrassment, yet Leo keeps on with the song. He burst out in laughter, doubling over himself, both hand in his stomach; his friends follows a moment later, cackling up as well. “You’re an idiot, Leo.” He gives himself some time to steady his breath, grinning wide. “A sappy idiot, no less.”

“That’s a good thing!” Leo says a bit too loud, and Otabek feels the words penetrating through his skull, a ringing joining the buzz of the club’s aftermath. If he’s ever gonna go deaf, Otabek’s sure it’s gonna be today. “I can be a sappy idiot, that’s a good idiot.” He doesn’t know whether to punch him for being so damn happy just to take him out of his shell or to hug him because it’s definitely working and he’s kicking himself for falling into such a stupid trick. “And it’s a good thing to have a song. Y’know, to remind us.” Leo looks down to his cup. “We’re not the kissy kind of friends.”

“No we’re not.” Otabek answers to quick, sending Leo back in a laughing fit. He waits for the boy to stop to look at him questioningly, his head tilted to a side. “You’re not that good.”

“ _Excuse me?”_ Leo puts a hand to his chest, wide eyes and mouth agape, offended. “You were about to fall head over heels for me, I saw it in your eyes!”

Otabek snorts, trying to ignore the piercing sound of Leo’s voice in his ears. “You smile pretty, I’ll give you that. But you’re a _lame kisser.”_

Leo fakes shock, almost falling off his seat. “Well, I’m sorry if I’m not as experienced...”

“Are you slutshaming me, Leo? That’s low.” He replies in the most venomous tone he can work his voice into despite the heavy nausea starting to settle in his gut.

Leo laughs at him, his voice slow and endearing. “I never would, I don’t care about your story.” Leo pushes a hand down to the middle of the breakfast bar. “I know I have a place in your heart. Huh, Beks?”

Otabek stares at him, looking for something he knows isn’t there. A shadow, a trapdoor. A word to prove all of this fake. Leo just smiles, and somehow he’s glowing even under the clear weight of the hangover on his lids, the dark circles under his eyes. Maybe he’s just thinking too much. “Yeah.” He lets his hands crawl through the breakfast table and over Leo’s, intertwining their fingers. Maybe this is a good thing. Maybe the bad day has finally passed. “Sure.”


End file.
